


a step back

by jarofclay



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofclay/pseuds/jarofclay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People say that perfection doesn’t exist, but Kuroko Tetsuya begs to differ; for he has met it more than once in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a step back

**Author's Note:**

> > tw for COLLEGE AU; for terribly smitten Kuroko and an Akashi who deals with feelings in the slyest way conceivable.  
> > More seriously, in the first five paragraphs are quickly implied different degrees of other past ships, so you have to stomach that to get to the akakuro.  
> > Many inconsistencies about the setting but ok man whatever they're in love so it's alright
> 
> since i keep plotting fics with not an ounce of purple prose, i tried to convey all my raging need for romance and pretentious poetry into a quick, strongly self-indulgent one. Also, with this, I hope to ease some of orechii’s need for 500% fluff since everyone around us keeps giving us only sad C’:  
> betaed by sui (and heavily helped by ju and i’ve come to realize idk what i would do without her which is utterly tragic for many reasons)  
> happy kikuro day _( :3

 

 

 

At the age of 13, Kuroko Tetsuya, middle schooler with an intense, visceral love for drawing and a lack of talent for it, chances upon perfection for the first time, or so he likes to think. It happens right upon meeting, and it’s like entering the trajectory of a burning star, being sucked into its gravity field with no means of escape; becoming a tiny satellite reflecting the brightness and dancing endlessly around it, never touching, in a binary system where Tetsuya hopes to be doing his own part in moving the giant star along, even if by infinitely little. Because of that, Tetsuya grows up believing that when people say perfection does not exist, it just means they never met Aomine Daiki.

But he never speaks of this with anyone, let alone Aomine himself. When middle school ends, it seems only natural that Aomine talks excitedly to Tetsuya about their future in high school but kisses his childhood friend at the graduation ceremony instead, naïvely certain the three of them will stay together forever. But Tetsuya doesn’t follow him in his choices, and as he watches them move to another city and gradually fall out of touch, Tetsuya thinks that perhaps it’s for the best.

At the age of 16, Tetsuya, high schooler desperately striving to become better at what he loves, meets perfection again, and finds that it’s just as jarring, as centre-shifting as years before. It happens somewhere in the middle, and it’s like walking on safe, solid ground until an unannounced earthquake strikes and shakes his bones; craters rumble open under his feet and there’s nothing he can do but let himself fall deep into the dark and frightening cracks.

This time too he doesn’t say anything, because before he has time to deal with the truth, his best friend flies off to America to run after his future. Tetsuya might have protested; might have tried to convince him to stay, to twist the knife in his friend’s doubts. But some of the many things that make Kagami Taiga perfect are his heart and dreams, and his will to follow them; so at the airport, the last words Kagami tells him are ‘You’d better have become famous by our next meeting. I didn’t make you sign all those notes for nothing.’ They hug, and despite the frantic impulse to never let go, Tetsuya does, and once again doesn’t follow. He has his own dream to chase, after all.

In the end, what Tetsuya has left of Aomine and Kagami is a huge stack of sketches and portraits, of sights snatched from the sidelines, of memories of Aomine pushing him forward when he slacked behind in his ambitions, and Kagami strolling beside him and sharing his own with him. In his innate inability to express perfection in the language of words, Tetsuya tries to catch theirs on paper. But he’s never able to—their years together ending before he could ever manage to seize a glimpse of it, treasure it as something concrete and not as fleeting as time and distance make it seem.

At the age of 21, Tetsuya, college junior studying for a bachelor degree in Arts, knows perfection for the third time. He also starts to believe that maybe the normal, the average people weren’t meant to be for him, that he’s destined to orbit forever in the wake of greater men. Maybe one day he’ll even get used to it, he thinks, and already wonders where fate will lead this one away, or if he’ll be able to hold onto it this time. Because Tetsuya knows the importance of fighting for what is worth it, but has yet to figure out where the limit of that lies when it comes to people and not such immaterial things as dreams.

It’s like witnessing a portrait bloom into existence. First appear the strokes in pencil, light and sketchy on the blank canvas, tickling his curiosity, catching his eyes and gluing them to it with a wish to see what will come out of it. Then is the turn of paint, the quick and accurate brushstrokes, auburn hues and the color of pale skin, lights and shadows shaping the contours. And when that is complete too, the time comes to take a step back, admire the painting from a distance, and realize how perfect it is in its entirety; how deep his heart is into it to be able to perceive it in any other way.

But before all this—before their meeting, and the friendship that followed—Akashi Seijuurou is just another student, one who happens to be the most renowned in every corner of the college they both attend. Business junior student, top of the class, college committee’s president, perfect grades, perfect conduct, perfect social status, perfect perfect wherever he turns there’s the word _perfect_ hanging from people’s lips. Yet, to Tetsuya, he is just like the flat surface of a still lake, a blank canvas.

There’s always a quasi objective perfection in stillness; a blank canvas may be seen as perfect in its unmarred whiteness, but it’s not the kind that draws Tetsuya’s attention. From what few glimpses he has caught over time, Tetsuya neutrally gathers the collective impression that Akashi Seijuurou is clever; severe but respectful, a good leader in the college community, surely destined to greatness once he enters the world’s scene, regardless of the field he would choose to operate in. He is a monolithic figure in the landscape standing up in the distance, an unblemished stone. Tetsuya doesn’t doubt the presence of something more at the stone’s core, under the flat water—there always is. But Akashi Seijuurou is, in every term, not perfect in Tetsuya’s eyes nor his business to unravel and place his interest in. People who make themselves look like blank canvases don’t want to be seen otherwise, and one shouldn’t pry for the sake of prying. He’s always done the same, albeit in the opposite direction; he understands.

And so, despite crossing paths by chance again and again, he and Akashi Seijuurou remain strangers to each other for two years.

 

How it begins: through the book club he’s been attending for months and in need of extra money, Tetsuya obtains the part-time job as college librarian. He already knows the library by heart when he starts, having spent most of his time there when he’s not on the bleachers or the courtyard, sketching players and passersby.

That’s how he happens to be putting away some books when in the narrow space between two rows of shelves, he recognizes the unmistakable eyes of Akashi Seijuurou, in the company of one of Tetsuya’s art classmates. He doesn’t know why they’re together in the seventh corridor of the library, nor is he interested in finding out; but given the conversation they’re sharing with no air of secretiveness, Tetsuya reckons it’s nothing private that would require him to tactfully walk away from the scene.

The girl is wondering if Akashi is interested in posing as a model for figure painting classes, their old ones having recently withdrawn their availability or graduated.

“I’m afraid I have to decline,” Akashi says educatedly. He explains that he’s busy with many duties, that he has little time to offer. He makes no point about being self-conscious, and if his neutral and unreserved intonation is of any indication, Tetsuya believes he’s not simply omitting an uncomfortable truth.

The girl politely thanks him for his time, leaves him with a lilac flyer, the same kind that is attached in many copies to all the notice boards in the atrium, in case he changes his mind. As the girl walks away, Akashi stays, and continues to examine the row of books before him. Then he sighs, a heavy but reserved sigh that has Tetsuya’s gaze perk up to instinctively search for the source, its visual feedback, only to find a pair of eyes still downcast and unreadable.

Akashi travels down the seventh corridor and around the corner of the bookshelf, appears into Tetsuya’s view with a distant look and pale fingers running along the crests of the lined books, without taking notice of Tetsuya, as most do. Or so Tetsuya thinks, until Akashi suddenly jerks his head towards him and stares with a wide, baffled look.

Before normalcy can return on Akashi’s features, Tetsuya puts one last book into its rightful place and goes back to the counter.

 

In the following weeks, Tetsuya observes Akashi.

It all stems from an initial curiosity in assessing whether Akashi would indeed be an ideal model for figure painting, as his classmates put it. Not that the practice requires beauty or perfection, but ideal bodies are always appreciated when having to get acquainted with proportions, muscles, anatomy.

It slowly derails when Tetsuya, easy prey of his overbearing observational skills, involuntarily starts picking up on Akashi’s habits more than he pays an artistic brand of attention to his body.

Akashi’s favourite spot is the one by the large glass wall on the far end of the main nave, exactly opposite to Tetsuya’s counter. He notices that soon, because Akashi is a regular of the late hours. He always comes in with his schoolbag full; when he sits, he pulls some books out, neatly stacks them into orderly piles to his left, and then lowers his head and doesn’t resurface until twenty minutes before closing hour. Other times he walks in only to wander about the shelves, pulling out books, delicately skimming through them and reading the first pages before deciding his next action.

On those days, he walks up to the counter and requests to borrow a book. Tetsuya is bound to notice all of this easily too because Akashi’s gaze never wavers when he approaches and hands him the day’s choice, doesn’t look around perplexed, doesn’t gasp when Tetsuya takes the book out of his hand and speaks up to wish him a good day. This troubles Tetsuya, because he has a tendency to exploit his lack of presence. Overlooked, he sometimes distracts himself from reality to pick up a good read, or linger on a drawing in his sketchbook a moment too long, and when Akashi reaches him, there’s a curious look in his eyes; not judging, but eloquent, silently communicating to Tetsuya that _he_ knows he is not doing his job. Tetsuya doesn’t fancy those moments.

Another blatant detail that doesn’t escape Tetsuya’s attention for long is that anyone hardly approaches Akashi’s table. The library is relatively wide and the attendance is not too high, but it still feels like an invisible spell is cast around Akashi’s surroundings, a powerful one which keeps at bay even the most daring fans peregrinating to the library only to admire his bubble of loneliness as closely as the spell allows them to.

Never one to give up a good occasion, Tetsuya soon finds a way to exploit the newfound knowledge on Akashi.

Second year’s finals approach, and Tetsuya is relieved of his job for several weeks. Nevertheless, he still spends most of his free time in the library, whether he’s in the mood to study, read or draw. He too has his own favourite spots; sadly, they’re also the favourite spots of many other students, who notice him only when it’s too late, when they’re already murmuring among them about the day’s homework and confirming in their heads the wrong number of free space for all of their group.

It can be tiring on some days, and if breaching Akashi’s fixed range of solitude can save him from being an unwilling participant to an overcrowded table, then he has nothing preventing him from stepping forth.

He sits down wordlessly, in the farthest seat from Akashi he can occupy at the table for six. Just as wordlessly, Akashi raises his head, allowing his face only an instant of perplexity before examining him critically, evaluating what kind of library neighbor he might be. Tetsuya doesn’t miss the glance he darts to the opposite side of the hall, where the usual librarian sits at the counter. Apparently believing him not to be a nuisance, Akashi soon goes back to his book.

Afternoons pass slowly and quietly close to each other, and Tetsuya ends up catching new things about Akashi that he had failed to notice from a distance. Like the fact that around six in the afternoon, Akashi concedes himself the leisure of a game on the portable shogi board he pulls out of his school bag, as if it was normal occurrence to carry one around everyday; or that Akashi often doesn’t seem to be studying any kind of book that one would expect from a business student: books of art, of music, of politics are scattered in sequence around him, and Tetsuya has to wonder if Akashi is preparing himself to be a patron king in some faraway land across the ocean or if he’s simply _that_ interested in nurturing such a polymathic knowledge.

“I’m sorry,” he says one day as he moves to the chair right across Akashi in order to turn his back to the glass wall and practice some architectural drawing of the library. Akashi sends him an inquiring look. “Do I disturb you if I sit here?”

“Do as you please,” Akashi answers flatly and returns his attention to the book at hand; but after that, Tetsuya could swear the chill he feels on his skin is instilled by Akashi’s gaze passing over him now and then, inspecting.

Obviously, Tetsuya steals a fair share of glances at him. He has reason to believe Akashi does the same, but never catches him in the act. Nonetheless, as the days go by, Tetsuya grows certain that, at some level, the awareness of each other has become steady and mutual.

 

Their first actual conversation is delivered by a rainy spring day that catches many unprepared. Back to his librarian duties, Tetsuya sits in his spot at the counter, and notices Akashi sleeping on his books.

He never did that before and for some reason, Tetsuya has the distinct feeling Akashi is not the kind of person who likes to sleep in public. But it’s late, and the library’s empty except for very few students, so Tetsuya lets him.

Around twenty minutes before closing hours, he rests a hand on Akashi’s shoulder and gently shakes him awake. Akashi doesn’t respond right away at the call of his name; he keeps sleeping, until suddenly his brows sink imperceptibly, twitching along with the corners of his eyes, his lips quivering and Tetsuya’s fingers twitch in unison as well, as they do whenever they itch for his cellphone to snap a picture of something he wants to draw. In a stretched instant, the expression is gone and Akashi blinks awake, swiftly pulls himself up.

“We’re closing, Akashi-kun.”

Akashi pulls at the sleeve of his uniform to read the hour on his watch. He stares at it for a strangely long second, the glance he throws at Tetsuya after that slightly suspicious.

But, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he simply says, as formal as ever, and frowns mildly at the world outside the window, a smudge of irritation flitting about.

“It’s alright,” Tetsuya says. “Would you like me to put away those books for you?”

“Yes, if you may.”

Tetsuya takes in how efficiently Akashi recovers from the drowsiness, in front of him, how promptly his body hides away any more trace of one hour long nap. Yet, as he gathers the books in his arms and turns, he manages to catch Akashi’s fingers, out of the corner of his vision, nimbly rubbing his eyes; the other hand’s inconspicuously slipping in the crook of his tie to check its fit.

A few minutes later Akashi strolls out of the library, while Tetsuya puts the books away and thinks of that fleeting expression he saw earlier, wonders if he’ll still remember it well enough once he’ll have picked up paper and pencil.

After closing the library’s door behind himself, he meets Akashi again on his path to the exit. He’s with someone else now, though; another student Tetsuya vaguely recognizes from the college committee, with such unruly clothes and mien that by contrast, makes Akashi’s impeccability look even starker, almost untouchable by commoners’ hands. By the looks of it, it’s a one-sided argument, the student’s shouts obnoxiously loud as he heatedly demands an explanation, while Akashi seems utterly indifferent to it all. In fact, he makes to go away; but the guy’s hand shoots out to grab his arm and yank it back. It’s not a violent gesture, and Akashi doesn’t appear fazed in the least by it; but Tetsuya was always quick to act and careless to step into these situations, and the guy jumps with a pleasing screech as he appears beside him with the request to stop.

“Thank you for your help, but I believe we are indeed done.” Akashi’s words are polite, but his voice is icy, piercing like an arrow, and Tetsuya tenses with the need to face him, to keep Akashi in sight, like felines do when a threat confronts them in the open.

“I gave you a chance.” Authority seems to radiate off Akashi’s whole being in crushing waves as he looks down on the guy. “And you didn’t take it. I honestly don’t know why they allowed you to participate in the committee when you’re obviously too busy chasing your so-called loves to do what you must do. You’re a hindrance to our teamwork and I have already found a better substitute. The only thing I ask of you, is to not saddle me further with your pointless regrets.”

And just like that, Akashi turns to Tetsuya instead, switching to an unsettling indifference for their surroundings. “Kuroko-kun, is it? Shall we go?”

Before he knows it, Tetsuya is already moving his feet forward, compelled by an invisible force binding him to Akashi’s order. He falls into step beside him like a cadet following a commander, sparing only one glance over his shoulder at the stricken guy left speechless in Akashi’s wake.

“Do you often jump like that in others’ arguments?” Akashi asks him, gaining his attention again. He’s smiling faintly, but not with his eyes. His tone doesn’t sound chiding, though; only curious, and vaguely amused.

“No,” Tetsuya says. “I just don’t like standing by on some occasions.”

“I see,” Akashi says with an appraising nod.

Tetsuya doesn’t know what Akashi sees, but what _he_ sees is sketchy lines being drawn on a blank canvas, sharp eyes without mirth, cutting like cold steel folded in on itself, unapologetic and authoritative, a crimson not burning but freezing, and winding smoothly like blood in arteries. Is this the perfection the school knows, Tetsuya asks himself, and doubts it; and that’s exactly why he feels obliged to keep looking, to discover more.

They reach the entrance, and Tetsuya pulls his umbrella open. Akashi slows down at the top of the outer steps instead, staring aloof at the pouring rain.

“You don’t have your umbrella?” Tetsuya asks.

“No.” Akashi heaves a sigh, a wrinkle in his brow. “I never forget my umbrella,” he says, more to himself than Tetsuya, sounding like he’s chiding himself for doing something so unbelievably silly and irresponsible.

Tetsuya restrains the unfathomable urge to smile at the display. “I could walk you. Do you live in the dorms? I’m in D2.”

“A1.” Tetsuya’s eyes widen, despite the news not being shocking in itself. Akashi’s social status is renowned by everyone and A1 is the dormitory with private single rooms, usually inhabited by the wealthiest students. “It’s the farthest from yours. Don’t worry, go on without me.”

Tetsuya doesn’t. He falters a bit in his decision, long enough for Akashi to direct at him an inquisitive glance. “I insist, Akashi-kun. It’s fine by me. I don’t really have anything else to do today.”

Akashi blinks, while Tetsuya wishes he could read his expressions better. “If that’s the case, then…”

The walk does take many minutes, and the rain drenches his legs to the bone; but Tetsuya enjoys it anyway, finds in Akashi a pleasant interlocutor. As expected, Akashi knows an inexplicable amount of things, has an opinion about everything and many of those point in the opposite direction from Tetsuya’s, when he has one to share himself. Nonetheless it’s nice, and a faint displeasure crawls in him once they finally reach the dormitory.

“Thank you,” Akashi says in front of the main door.

“You’re welcome.” Tetsuya rests the handle of his umbrella on the shoulder, eyes the dorm behind Akashi with admiration, thinking that it does fit the stereotypical image of a place for wealthy people. Engrossed with the architecture of the building witnessed from closer than he usually sees it from his room’s window, he lets a distracted, “See you tomorrow,” slip out.

Which is a bizarre thing to say in their case, because they do nothing but sit at the same library table, or exchange a few words when Akashi borrows another book; many times they don’t even acknowledge each other. Tetsuya scratches his cheek and looks away towards his own dormitory. But contrary to his predictions,Akashi shows him a smile that could be used by textbooks as the definition of symmetry, and replies, “Certainly. Have a good evening, Kuroko-kun.”

 

It continues like this: it blooms like a flower, with time and sunlight, and raindrops falling outside the windows of the library, over books and shogi boards and rough sketches drawn on strewn papers.

Afternoons in the library turn into afternoons walking back to the dorms, then mornings to the college, lunchtimes eating together on the roofs, matches of board games that Tetsuya casually says he knows how to play only to find Akashi opening a portable board of it the next day; even running together for Akashi’s track team’s training—Tetsuya isn’t thrilled at first, but he supposes he could use some physical exercise; maybe also the extra time in Akashi’s company.

“Can I draw you,” he has the courage to blurt somewhere in the middle, and before Akashi can answer he adds, “You don’t have to pose or anything.”

As Akashi welcomes the request with no complaint, in Tetsuya’s sketchbook flourish drawings of him, piles and piles, alternating with his class assignments, the sterile architectures of the library and other buildings soon forgotten.

“Can I see it,” Akashi usually asks, but Tetsuya denies him permission every time, adamant about not letting him see far less than perfect drawings. Akashi’s opinion is something Tetsuya comes to treasure, and doesn’t enjoy putting to a test so mindlessly.

“It’s private,” he explains, wary of Akashi’s skeptical gaze. “And don’t look at me as I draw you, please.”

“Your stubbornness is close to fascinating,” Akashi answers, obviously not fascinated as he goes back to writing notes in his exercise book. “It was blatant since the start, but I reckoned there would be limits to it.”

“Tragic what friendship can unveil about people,” Tetsuya says before he can realize his own words. When he looks up, Akashi’s hand is slowing to a brief halt on the paper, and Tetsuya is pleased to spot an almost imperceptible smile bloom on his lips.

When Tetsuya works as librarian, he finds it awkward to spend hours in the same room yet so far from Akashi. Which is why when most of the people are out or in no apparent need of him, he travels down the nave and inconspicuously settles in his usual chair across Akashi. It’s not like they see him if he’s at the counter anyway; he can easily pretend he was always there in the first place. Sometimes, Akashi smirks at that.

In his continuous sketching of Akashi’s features, Tetsuya discovers he particularly likes Akashi’s tendency to pull up one foot on the chair when he plays shogi. It’s peculiar, and it fits Akashi’s image. He occasionally portrays him that way—until one day he finishes a sketch of it, passes a fingertip over a drawn cheekbone to smudge the lines into a shadier curve, and thinks that Akashi’s perfection maybe isn’t supposed to be caught on paper. Perhaps not by him.

Surprising himself with that line of thought, Tetsuya stops.

He recognizes it, because it has happened twice already, this fateful chancing upon perfection. He raises his head then, to look with a heavy chest at Akashi, working peaceful and clueless in front of him, and Tetsuya wonders how childish it would be to start crying now.

When Akashi notices him staring and asks, befuddled, “Is everything alright?” Tetsuya can’t answer, because things are arguably alright and because his voice is failing him, too knotted deep down his throat, clawing at it in a tenacious refusal to come out. So he just sighs resignedly, nods; and while Akashi isn’t fully persuaded by his silent confirmation, he doesn’t prod further.

Maybe it’s the destiny offering a timid apology for unfairly thrusting at him a succession of perfect individuals that are not supposed to exist, when after months Tetsuya finally, _finally_ , manages to draw Akashi right. In a state of sheer stupor, he gazes down at his paper; then raises it and stretches his hands out, contemplating it from a distance.

Recognizing the gesture marking the completion of a work, Akashi perks up. “Can I see it?” It’s a rethorical question, one following a rehearsed script they both well know the end of.

But it’s time for a change, for a renewal, Tetsuya thinks as his eyes fall on Akashi, mesmerized. “Yes,” he says in a daze, and Akashi’s face comically switches from aloof to just as stunned as he feels inside.

He takes the sketchbook from him with hesitant fingers and discontinuous glances down at the open page, as if trying to grant Tetsuya a last occasion to change his mind. But Tetsuya doesn’t take it back and Akashi observes it attentively now, with heart-warming captivation. After long he only says, “Impressive,” and perhaps, since this is Akashi, that single word is indeed more than enough to convey all of his appreciation for it. “Can I see the others too?”

Tetsuya nods, because grasping perfection changes a lot of perspectives; right now, it seems only natural to show the process behind a success. A success, he keeps thinking, a success.

“You draw only people,” Akashi points out in the tense silence. Tetsuya is glad he doesn’t say ‘only me’.

“People are more interesting,” Pen rolling excitedly between fingers, Tetsuya lays his chin on the palm of his hand. “Simple observation can tell you a lot even about strangers. I think it’s endearing.”

Akashi keeps turning the pages of the sketchbook, one by one, his touch so delicate that it makes him look like an archeologist handling a fragile precious relic; but he still takes a moment to look up and say with the most beautiful smile Tetsuya ever remembers being granted, “That does sound a lot like you, yes.”

And it’s on occasions like these, when Akashi lets him see through and offers him a reason as to why meeting perfection is worth it, no matter the pain and the longing, that Tetsuya doesn’t dare look away.

 

Where it ends—as they know it: Tetsuya is looking over his sketched art nude when Akashi peeks curiously at the paper and asks about it. They make their way to the cafeteria talking about Tetsuya’s figure painting experience, and once they’re sat down at one of the empty tables, both their lunch on one common trail, Akashi tells him, “They asked me to be a model, once. For what I assume would have been one of your classes.”

“I know,” Tetsuya answers, probably too quickly.

Akashi’s face has rarely looked so stunned in months of constant close proximity. “You know?”

Spooning some of the ice cream that is his only buy for the lunch, Tetsuya hums. “I heard the girl responsible for recruiting going over the list of people she wanted to ask. I also saw the two of you when she asked you about it in the library.” Catching the mouthful between his lips, he stares at the bottom of his cup, uneasy. He wonders if that made him sound like a stalker. “I’m the librarian,” he adds lamely.

“I see,” Akashi says, unnervingly enigmatic as usual; Tetsuya is tempted to ask what it _is_ that he always sees so clearly with his omni-observant eyes.

“I remember mostly because the ones who agreed couldn’t hold still and didn’t have good muscles,” he further justifies himself. And it’s half true; the other half being that Tetsuya simply remembers everything about Akashi Seijuurou. “I couldn’t help but believe you would have been a far better model.”

But all that comes out of his mouth, instead of salvaging the situation, lends him the distinct impression that he’s only digging his grave deeper. Akashi looks at him even more weirdly. “You wish I had agreed?”

It doesn’t truly sound like a question, Tetsuya notices. He tries to sound logical. “Well, you have optimal body proportions and muscles. Your face is shockingly symmetrical. Also, you’re not an eyesore, which would have largely appeased many of my classmates’ hopes for that class.”

“An eyesore,” Akashi echoes pensively.

“You’re not,” Tetsuya repeats concisely. “I’m sure everyone would have agreed with me in saying that you look like a good model to study, anatomically.”

“How are you at it?” Akashi asks casually.

“Um, I.” Scratching his cheek in embarrassment, Tetsuya mumbles, “My professor says I could be better.”

“You need practice,” Akashi states, understanding.

“I suppose…”

Akashi stays silent for a long while. The food on the trail is consumed little by little, until only Akashi’s bowl of fruit salad is left and that’s when he says, “If _you_ asked me to pose for you for figure drawing practice, I’d say yes.”

Only a miracle prevents his cup of ice cream from being dropped on his knees, giving back strength to his fingers just in time to latch onto it again like a lifeline. “What.”

Akashi looks up from the plate to stare right into his eyes, dismally unperceptive of his inner discomposure, or just without care for it. “If you want me to pose for you for private practice, it’s fine by me,” he repeats.

Then, he raises a slice of apple to his mouth, sinks his teeth into it and Tetsuya feels like a deer caught in the headlights, one too many feet planted in the middle of the street instead of the dark safety of familiar woods, wondering how he was supposed to see this coming; if it would have sufficed to look down to the path he was following instead of admiring the foliage’s tricks of light—but he thinks, no, it wouldn’t have. That’s Akashi Seijuurou to the world.

 

After hours of shameful fiddling with the incepted idea in the safe, private corners of his mind, Tetsuya caves in to the growing desire of accepting Akashi’s offer. He honestly doesn’t know where he finds the courage and the voice to agree to it in later days.

Since Akashi, being a committee’s president well-trusted by the entire teacher body of the college, has easy access to the keys of the classrooms, it doesn’t prove a difficult task to sneak into the Fine Arts room and lock themselves in during the late afternoon hours. Akashi had proposed his dormitory room, but Tetsuya is in a too compromised state of mind to permit himself any alone time with Akashi naked in a bedroom, instead of the more formal environment of the art classroom, with its less intimate platform for models and the familiar forest of easels already set around it.

Unlike other classmates, Tetsuya has never felt shy when drawing nudes, nor about nakedness in general. It’s practice, and it’s needed, so there’s no point in losing concentration over a body simply shown for what it is. But a body is a body while Akashi Seijuurou is Akashi Seijuurou, and that of course underlies all the difference in the world.

Consequentially, Tetsuya pointedly turns around and busies himself with shifting his easel into a more central position as Akashi strips down in the corner. His hands are sweating profusely as he shuffles about to mount a blank canvas on the easel. The pencil falls from his quivering fingers as he takes it out from the case, and when he picks it up, it risks to pathetically slipping again because then Akashi says from somewhere behind him. “Do I sit here?”

Carefully glancing over his shoulder, he’s on the verge of fainting from relief when he sees Akashi wearing a white robe.

“Yes,” he croaks out. “Please give me a moment and I’ll tell you how.”

Akashi sits down, legs crossed as he waits silently, and Tetsuya prolongs his actions to the point he’s close to not moving anymore, in the foolish hope of postponing the moment he will have to turn around and finally _look_ at Akashi. But there are soon no more tasks to waste time on when all his tools have been arranged on the easel’s base and the only thing left is to sit on the stool and start drawing.

“Alright, you can…” he trails off, and whines inwardly when Akashi, unlike him, doesn’t bother wasting time. With the unfair elegance of a king, he discards his robe with a sinuous roll of his shoulders, lets it slip down his arms, flicks it off his legs, and leaves it to pool on the platform under him like a creased blanket, the last contemporary echo of Giorgione’s Venuses; probably Tetsuya’s heart skips a beat, perhaps two, and in his defense, his whole body and mind stop functioning only for few seconds. In his defense, the world is at fault for not upholding a law banning Akashi from serving as a model for figure painting.

Like a puppeteer arranging its creation in the desired display for the shop window, Tetsuya steers Akashi’s limbs where he wants them, fingers barely brushing the bare skin. He grazes both knees, gently draws them apart, then slipping to one shin and propelling it upwards; Akashi meets him halfway in every gesture, moving as if he’s a body of inertia, guided by Tetsuya’s soft pushes and then following the shown trajectory on their own—and if Akashi notices his hands trembling a bit, he doesn’t say anything about it.

One knee up, arm bent on it, its hand cradling the back of the neck and cheek nestled against the forearm, Akashi keeps his gaze fixed onto Tetsuya’s, a bewildering lenience in his expression and a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Is there a reason as to why like this?” Akashi asks knowingly.

Tetsuya doesn’t falter. “It’s one that fits you.”

“And here I was expecting to pose as a Greek god,” Akashi jokes, and such rarity is enough to sedate Tetsuya’s heart a little.

“Is it really falling on me, the task of breaking to Akashi-kun that he’s no such thing.” His fingers leave Akashi’s smooth skin as he takes one long step back.

“You wound me,” Akashi says blandly, the muscles in his forearm shifting as his hand massages his nape distractedly. Then, noticing Tetsuya’s evaluating stance, he falls into stillness. “Is this fine?”

Looking at him, Tetsuya sees all over again what he saw that day in the library, and he doesn’t get why he should ever want Akashi to emulate Greek gods when he surpasses them the way he is naturally.

“It’s perfect,” Tetsuya answers, honest. Akashi’s eyes stare back, strangely serious. “Now, please, look to the side.”

Long minutes pass in a tense calmness as Tetsuya works on a rough outline. After he finishes, Akashi calls, “Kuroko,” sounding to Tetsuya’s ears almost curious—almost challenging, “Do you think I’m perfect?”

The ‘too’ goes unsaid, but Tetsuya hears it anyway, whether Akashi wanted him to or not. He hums, hesitant. “I think that is a question that might have a misleading answer.”

“How so?”

“What do you think of perfection, Akashi-kun?”

Head lolling, Akashi looks vacuously to the side, but his voice doesn’t waver, sharp and cynical. “It’s a requirement. A standard thrust upon individuals by either birth, or people who feel the need to label what they cannot accomplish themselves as unreachable, to justify their own flaws. A measurement that they often expect to be proved wrong, only to be pleased by this. And when they aren’t pleased…” Akashi’s hand once again threads flimsily through the red hair at the base of his neck, and his foot lightly taps now and then on the platform, but Tetsuya doesn’t tell him to stop. “Their disappointment is unfounded. As if perfection had always existed for them to be enamoured with.” He looks back at him with half-lidded eyes. “What about you?”

Tetsuya stops drawing. In his mind, he imagines a still lake rippled by drops of water raised from a storm; breaches in a wall from where frail flowers spurt into the sunlight; stars burning so bright that nothing can approach them past millions of light years without catching fire themselves.

He thinks of Akashi, of how unnecessarily composed he looks even in his sleep, but then blurts out words without realizing how unfair they might sound outside of his head; of when he draws up his left knee when he plays shogi but only if Tetsuya’s the only one watching. Of how he overanalyzes and deconstructs happenings to the point Tetsuya has to beg him to just stop thinking for once; when he keeps so much to himself whereas Tetsuya just wishes he could know everything already, but also casually admits important details about his life with the same nonchalance he would comment on the weather with. How he always has a comment to spare for everything, and how he’s always right, in the end, making Tetsuya wait for the moment he can tell him you were wrong after all—making him fear it will never come.

Of how he walks on a fine line between kind and unmerciful, how he refuses to give trust to people who don’t offer theirs; of how his eyes sometimes are alight with ice and rarer times with warmth and secretive knowing smiles, as if he sees things others cannot see—and it’s true, it’s probably true. How he asks Tetsuya to follow him with his words but to oppose him with his eyes; how he brings out a fire in Tetsuya, a faith, a dedication he never imagined he could offer, before Akashi came into the picture.

“I’m not good with words,” he replies, scratching a cheek. “But… to me, perfection is a state of mind. It’s something that makes you feel the need to take a step back and just… admire it as a whole. And if you step closer, all the details and the imperfections you see, you can’t help but think those are good too, since it’s the way they slot together that made it possible for that whole to exist.”

Tetsuya relents. “I’m sorry, this was kind of cryptic…”

“Not so much,” Akashi says absently, as if immersed in another line of thought and forcing himself to speak through it. He smiles faintly. “It’s curious, though. I could never relate to it, but I’ve heard sentimental people describing love in a very similar way.”

The tip of his pencil draws a far too wide leg as his grip on it tightens reflexively. Tetsuya pointedly stares at his mistake. “Is that so? Please look away, Akashi-kun, and stay still.”

Akashi does, but doesn’t lose the spark in his eyes.

 

On the second day, Tetsuya is giving a hand of faint watercolors when he looks up from the canvas and catches Akashi fixedly staring at him again.

“Please look away, Akashi-kun,” Tetsuya chides again.

However, Akashi doesn’t comply. He asks, instead, “Why don’t you want your subjects to look at you?”

Tetsuya sighs resignedly. “I don’t like being stared at as I draw is one reason. The second being, I think it’s more natural when people look away, even when they’re posing. That way it’s easier for their thoughts to wander freely and reflect on their expressions.”

Akashi seems to ponder attentively over his words. “What if the person’s mind freely careens towards the creator, though? Shouldn’t you let their gaze wander in unison with their thoughts?”

“No,” Tetsuya replies with childish obstinacy and no further explanation, because the problem is not any gaze, but Akashi’s raw one directed at him. He doesn’t want to explore that gaze, ever, in fear of not finding what he hopes for.

“That’s too bad. Because I’m in the mood for staring at you right now.” Head tipped further against his forearm, Akashi curves his lips into a crescent smirk. “And I’m fairly positive you won’t die from it.”

The brush slants along the pencil lines in a vaguely aggressive gesture as Tetsuya bores holes of judgment into the canvas instead of Akashi. “You’re the worst. I was wrong when I said you should have accepted the offer. What’s the point of a model who doesn’t do what he’s told?”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Akashi says, teasing.

No, Tetsuya thinks with an inner grimace, not when it’s you. “Of course it is, Akashi-kun.”

Akashi drops any retort, apparently more interested in staring unabashedly at Tetsuya. But even if Tetsuya tries to ignore to the best of his abilities, he can’t unsee Akashi’s eyes not being his usual cunning ones, scrutinizing the world as if it’s one big specimen to be appeased and set apart under his watch; just looking, their contours softer than usual, rarely so relaxed and unguarded. Tetsuya’s hands begin to sweat again.

“Kuroko,” Akashi calls softly when they near the end of their session. At Tetsuya’s hum of acknowledgement, he asks, “Why did you accept my offer?”

“Why did you offer in the first place?” Tetsuya retaliates promptly. But Akashi stands his ground and his inquiring gaze, righteously pushing the first turn on him. With a soft sigh, Tetsuya yields. “I’ve never been good at finding inspiration where they tell me to. I was curious to see how well could I do in the same assignment but drawing something I actually enjoy drawing.”

Akashi nods, absorbed in his own speculations; then answers on his part, “I had trust that, unlike most people, you would use my time fruitfully.”

“I hope to not disappoint then.”

“You won’t,” Akashi states, voice as firm as when he gives orders and expects them to be accomplished at their best—as when he seldom believes someone to have the potential in them to do only that, the best.

Somehow, after that, Tetsuya collects some of his calm again.

 

At the end of the third day, Tetsuya finishes the drawing. Without him noticing, still preoccupied by the details from up close, the tiny smudges and the overlapping color lines, Akashi soundlessly stands up from the base and nears on bare feet, arms crossed over the robe now wrapped around him.

“Can I see it?” he asks, his face appearing right beside the canvas, and Tetsuya almost jumps on the spot, more agitated than he’s ever been in his life upon finishing a work. When he nods wordlessly, because no words bother finding him then, Akashi takes a few dignified steps forwards, reaches his side and turns.

His eyes widen taking in Tetsuya’s creation, but he doesn’t speak, only observes in absolute silence as Tetsuya tries to not concentrate too much on their shoulders bumping together. When Akashi finally says in a soft, genuine murmur, “It’s beautiful,” Tetsuya releases the breath he was holding, knees threatening to wobble with relief.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I knew staying still for three afternoons straight would have paid off in the long run,” Akashi says, captivated, eyes darting about the painting. Tetsuya feels an indecorous pride of having been able to bring forth such an expression on Akashi’s face, a thrill similar to that of placing first place in the greatest of all competitions. “Would you let me have it?”

“No,” Tetsuya blurts out, jerking towards Akashi and, probably a tad too possessively, explains, “It’s mine. I drew it.”

Akashi’s brows furrow faced with his inflexible resolution. “I can pay you.”

“You can pay me, if you can’t help it. I could use the money,” Tetsuya says. “Still keeping it.”

“Then we should do this again,” Akashi states with finality, arm brushing against Tetsuya’s as he turns to him, incredibly close for being naked under that thin, white robe. “So that I can keep the second one.”

Tetsuya can’t pinpoint whether it’s the fatigue of the early evening or the exasperation of living on a taxing edge for three days straight finally taking a toll on his mind; whichever the cause, the ultimate result is his patience ceding, his wires snapping under the pressure, like a rubber band stretched too far. There are lines, in Tetsuya’s head, that mark wide limits between enjoyment and torture, between what he can endure and what he cannot. Right now, he can’t see any of those lines anymore on the horizon. “Please don’t play with me, Akashi-kun.”

Akashi frowns then. “I’m not,” he says, looking genuinely perturbed by the accusation. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I feel like I’m the opponent on your personal shogi board, and your pieces are all closing in on me. And you keep… pushing, and waiting for me to make my own move at some point. Problem is,” Tetsuya attempts to gulp a bothersome knot in his throat down, but it doesn’t melt away. “That I can’t figure out if you’re doing this out of mere curiosity, or if there’s a purpose in your tactics.”

Akashi quietly bores holes into him for what feels like an eternity, the sun and stars finding the time to chase each other in the sky beyond the window over and over again by its end. But then, “I do have a purpose,” he says slowly, carefully weighing each one of his words before allowing them to hang in the air between them, heavy with significance. “Knowing that, what would your next move be?”

Tetsuya stills, appalled. But when the words catch up to him, he tells himself he shouldn’t be surprised, because this is Akashi Seijuurou and his way of getting by: turning life into a long row of silent challenges, of mutual pushing and pulling, asking Tetsuya to simply show him he can keep the pace and stand his ground.

He leans in by impulse, without sorting thoughts through, without waiting for Akashi to meet him halfway like when he shapes him into a pose. It’s no experimental gesture, the touching of their lips, only Tetsuya indulging his wishes, allowing himself what he wants for the first time in his life, even if it’s a chance, just one chance. And it’s warm, as soft as he imagined it, and chaste, before Akashi is the one to catch up and push back, with a new fire Tetsuya couldn’t have predicted. He feels Akashi’s hands cupping his face, trapping it closer and in place, between long fingers that claw at his cheeks demandingly; and Tetsuya doesn’t mind that. Akashi could drag him into his own cage of perfection and measurements and strategic pawns on a board and Tetsuya is afraid he wouldn’t mind right now, he would follow him anywhere, just to please his own need to take all of this, to taste it on his tongue, and touch it with his fingertips. His hands slip past the robe, run up Akashi’s naked sides before snaking to his back, tracing the bumps in his spine one by one, leaving faint trails of watercolors on the skin—and Akashi shudders on his lips, eyes closed as he leans his forehead against his and breathes his air.

For the third time in his life Tetsuya is absolutely certain that perfection does exist. But being assailed by it is another experience entirely, it reaches a scary, overwhelming intensity; it wraps around him like a cocoon and it blooms from within like a corrosive substance, it suffocates him as he still breathes and what it kills it brings back, tenfold, in a seamless circle that could go on forever, until Tetsuya will be consumed to the core, nothing left but skin and bones and a memory of the incomplete he once had been.

Akashi’s hands leave his face to reach down too, frantic as they tug Tetsuya’s shirt untucked and slide under it, palming his chest and Tetsuya is glad Akashi feels the same, this desperate sudden need to explore, to map, to catch up on months of late late late, to memorize every line every curve every plane—

 

How it begins anew: Tetsuya sits up among the Prussian blue sheets of Seijuurou’s dorm bed with bleary eyes and terrible bedhair. Right beside him, Seijuurou is still asleep, face partially sunk against the fluffy white pillow; morning sunrays reach the tips of his messy hair, bathing them in brighter shades of red, ghosting over the soft curves of his shoulder blades that twitch under pale skin as he slowly shuffles an arm under his head, lips parting for one deeper breath.

Tetsuya observes him as he regains awareness gradually, until he’s awake enough to stumble off the bed. Finding his boxers amidst the pile of clothes on the floor, he staggers clunkily slipping them on; then rummages through his schoolbag, and bounces back on the bed with crossed legs and sketchbook in hand.

Having snapped an accurately framed picture of Seijuurou’s face for a later reference that he actually won’t need, he starts outlining his profile. The straight nose, the high cheekbones, he could probably sketch them all perfectly without looking, by now; but it’s a waste not to look when he is allowed to. As he adds some faint shading under the drawn eyes, the real ones blink open, languidly gazing up to him after a moment of blurry confusion. Tetsuya continues drawing.

“Don’t you ever get tired of drawing me?” Seijuurou asks after a while, only when he believes his voice won’t come out sounding too weak and sluggish.

Tetsuya shrugs, retracing the long line of Seijuurou’s jaw on the paper, shaping it sharper, firmer. “Hardly.”

Rolling on one shoulder to face him better, Seijuurou lolls his head down on the pillow, blanket sliding down his naked side. Tetsuya considers reaching out and touching him, but decides to finish drawing the falling locks of hair on Seijuurou’s forehead instead. “I would be flattered, but your drawing frequency seems to be bordering on obsessive, nowadays.”

“Why must you always complain about my habits,” Tetsuya says flatly. “Just be flattered.”

“Come here,” Seijuurou demands, and Tetsuya wonders if he does it deliberately or if it’s natural, that calm, compelling voice that one can’t simply deny—or if it’s just Tetsuya who has to put up a conscious fight to resist it every time. Regardless, this once he leaves sketchbook and pencil on the bedside table and then crawls, back under the blankets and over Seijuurou, and meets his waiting lips.

 

 

 

At the age of 21, Tetsuya, college junior studying for a bachelor degree in arts, falls in love for the third time, and the last one.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [fic was inspired by oreshi's smile and Florence and the Machine's song, " _All This and Heaven Too_ "]


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